I came across a woman in college today. Walking on the grass, imagine! I was strolling along with my friend Foley when I spotted her and grunted with shock and excitement. ‘What do you think of that, Foley my friend!’ I cried. 

Naturally Foley was equally shocked. Old fellow – old fellow Fellow, ha ha – has the same ideas as I do. We’ve been friends for decades. I didn’t like him much at first – thought him a devilish impudent young rogue. He would swagger into the laboratories, mocking my petri dishes and muttering about new-fangled technologies. I didn’t need any of that, thank you very much. However, after the notorious incident with the guinea fowl in ‘58, we of course became bosom companions. 

Where was I? Oh yes, Foley and I were going to confront the old girl and ask her what she thought she was doing what what, not quite in the spirit of Trin and all that. Unfortunately we walk pretty slowly these days, and my stick caught Foley’s, so we were forced to stop and settle the trouble in a gentlemanly manner, i.e. hitting one another on the ankle until the other gave in. Foley won, but he is only eighty-seven. 

Neither of us teaches anymore. The Dean told us about a decade ago that we were unique Fellow fellows – there I go again! – but attitudes change, sort of thing. I wasn’t really listening, too busy sizing up his beard (a mere 4 for bushiness, but 7 for length, curse him). But when he mentioned he’d continue our free board my ears pricked up and we graciously accepted. 

We don’t really have much to do these days, though we find ways to amuse ourselves – for example, for fifteen years we’ve been energetically campaigning to improve the quality of the sea bass. But mostly, we sit with our pipes and discuss the old days, when the world wasn’t in such a hurry and there were toasted crumpets for tea. 

After the female incident, we’d returned to our separate rooms, but I popped over to Foley’s to see if he wanted to pootle to the library and mock the young guns slaving away. I opened the door (he never locks it, not since he heard rumours of sporting young women roaming the corridors in ‘72). He is sitting in his usual armchair. 

‘Foley, you rogue!’ I say. Foley does not respond. I am seized by a sudden, clammy fear. I approach, slowly, my old bones clicking with the effort. I grasp Foley’s hand. It is cold, and there is nothing in those eyes that I love so well. I gasp and retreat, collapse onto the sofa. I sit there and I weep: an old man, alone and friendless, in a world grown cold and cruel. 

Read last week's instalment here: http://www.varsity.co.uk/culture/5626